


Rebel Rebel

by Apollostowel



Series: Second Chances [2]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Guitars, Humor, Music, Romance, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 18:12:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4797341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apollostowel/pseuds/Apollostowel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taking place after Second Chances, the Doctor has a new hobby, and Clara does a clever thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rebel Rebel

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place after Second Chances. As there are a few callbacks to it, some things might make more sense if you have a look at that first. “Rebel Rebel” is part 2 in this ongoing miniseries, and sets us up for part 3, the crack fic “WhoChurch.” We have the very thinnest of plots, but this is just a slice of Tardis Life downtime, since we’re not gonna have much of that once s9 kicks into gear. Rebel Rebel well and truly earns its rating, so y’all enjoy yourselves. They are!

The start of the school year was fast approaching, and Clara hadn’t even begun to get cracking on that lesson plan. Not usually one to procrastinate, and certainly not ready to face the idea that her school teacher days might be passing her by, the feeling of needing to play catch-up was alien to her. Alien, she couldn’t fully blame her alien either, at least not really. 

Since Christmas, they’d both been finding reasons to procrastinate at all sorts of things, all over the Tardis, and outside of the Tardis… Clara shook her head, as if that would clear her thoughts of finding new and exciting ways to procrastinate. 

She snuggled into the big comfy chair on the second level, resigning herself instead into figuring out new and exciting ways to convince year seven that Shakespeare wasn’t boring. Shakespeare, that was a name that made her mind wander once again. _‘I do love nothing in all of time and space, so well as you. Is not that strange?’_ Clara closed her eyes, only to be jarred back into reality by a loud, and increasingly familiar, twang.

* * *

The Doctor had been trying these last few months to chase down ways of dealing with Vashta Nerada. There was a planet, he’d nearly taken Clara there, when the Tardis accidentally-on-purpose, wisely landed elsewhere. He’d dubbed it the planet of the shrubbery. 

Only sparsely populated by humanoids, their numbers were being wiped out by the only apex predator, Vashta Nerada. Not usually an apex predator, the problem had gotten out-of-control. Were they a feral species? Who introduced them, then? For now, that wasn’t the question. There had to be something better than, ‘Just run.’ Had he not stumbled on the problem by accident, he’d have never known, but now he did know, and the solution was a thing he didn’t. It was too much to resist, with the added bonus of helping out where he was needed.

At another stalemate, he tosses his tools to the side, running his hands through his hair and across his face in frustration. The answer seemed obvious, but it was eluding him. He was missing the obvious way more than he’d even barely admit to himself. The longer this took, the more precise the calculation as to where to splinter the timeline had to be. Grabbing for his guitar, he found the random chords and melodies that flowed from his fingers allowed his mind to relax, and perhaps stumble on an answer. Ignoring a planet overrun with Vashta Nerada just wasn’t an option he was willing to entertain.

Was it even his guitar? It must be, yet he hardly knew, other than he found it and its old matching Marshall amp during another search for the round things. A war-worn red Fender strat. If he knew what it was, then it must be his, he hoped.

* * *

Huffing loudly, Clara slammed her notebook down on the arm of the chair. She loved him, but couldn’t stand him sometimes. She’d asked for some peace and quiet, they’d talked about the day the same way they always had, over a quick breakfast. He could appear so perfectly attentive. 

He didn’t mind that she had some work to do, so did he. A day in suited him fine too. No, no need to go to the library. His thing wasn’t going to be loud. Sure, she could use his chair, why did she think he was so grumpy as to mind that? It’s as much her chair. With a hug and a kiss on the cheek, he’d disappeared to leave her to it. Resolving to get the mundane done and dusted, she threw on the first dress at hand, grabbed her notebook, and pushed thoughts of leaving school entirely, to one side. Working separately, but in the same space didn’t feel so isolating. She just forgot to factor in the stupid guitar.

Of course, the guitar wasn’t actually stupid. What was stupid was her reaction to it. It was all part of an overall transformation that she found too alluring for her own good. He’d become more relaxed as of late, and not just in his demeanor. The crisp New Wave magician look was shed in favor of something far more casual. Some people could pull off the just-rolled-out-of-bed look, and he was certainly one of them. 

Old t-shirts with attitude, faded hoodies, scuffed boots, paired sometimes with black trousers, sometimes with plaid, gave off an attitude of not caring what anyone else thought. With his thick, curly, and carefully disheveled locks, and the occasional two-day scruff, he was starting to appear as the grunge rock gods she’d secretly idolized as a little girl. With their deep, introspective words, and attitudes of not caring what the world thought, it was part of what drew her into philosophy and literature in the first place.

And then came the guitar, that guitar. Unable to contain his excitement, he’d practically flapped his arms, clucking like a mother hen as he showed it to her, and she was excited for him. It turned out he really could play, although it wasn’t only the playing. It was the complete image now, an extremely distracting image. With legs propped lazily on the amp, absent-mindedly noodling his way through finding a solution to his latest query, he really was the bad boy grunge rock god, totally oblivious, and totally hers. 

Was he really oblivious to the effect he had on her? She never could be too sure of that with the Doctor. The singing was a fine example. Since Christmas, she’d encouraged him to sing more, and he did so, with much enthusiasm. Only, he always got the words wrong. He was a walking encyclopedia of misheard lyrics. She’d just about decided it was completely unintentional, until the day he asked, “What’s this human obsession with a woman named Lorraine?”

Clara lifted an eyebrow, setting down the oft-neglected lesson plan, as they reclined comfortably against each other in the library. “Lorraine?”

He flipped through an old book, as if looking for the answer, “Yes, yes, Lorraine. Was she some mythological figure or something? You never see her mentioned anywhere, and then suddenly, she appears everywhere in popular music.”

Clara drew a blank, but as always, followed his thread to see where it went. “Okay, give me an example.”

The Doctor sang in his lovely resonant gravel, appearing to be getting the text from the book “I can see clearly now, Lorraine is gone,” he hurried on, “Also, there’s ‘It's gonna take a lot to drag me away from you. There's nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do. I guess Lorraine’s down in Africa. Gonna take some time to do the things we never had.’” He ended the last with the slightest of smirks.

Turning around to poke him in chest, she retorted, “Lorraine is the goddess of misheard lyrics. And pop songs don’t suit you.” Clara unsuccessfully suppressed her laughter under a veneer of annoyance, as he flashed her a wink, along with one of his big devilish smiles. She wanted him to sing more? Misheard lyrics was what she was going to get. That she always laughed probably didn’t help. He was funny, but what would it be like to hear him really sing to her? He was such a romantic, she couldn’t really complain. She could only sigh inwardly and let him, be him.

* * *

So it was she set up shop in the library. This lesson plan had to get done. It absolutely could not wait any longer. Clara hunkered down at the table, plan book open, the blank lines mocking her. She couldn’t get that endless twanging out of her head. Tapping her pen to the paper in frustration, it only matched the rhythm playing out in her mind.

“Okay, concentrate, you can do this,” Clara focused herself onto the task at hand. As her thoughts cleared, she put pen to paper, finally having an idea that wasn’t just a repeat of last year. She never wanted to be one of those teachers who repeated old material, but what was it again? No sooner had she begun to write, than the idea left her head, replaced by the incessant twang. 

It was a haunting melody, both happy and sad, as if it had developed a fault. Smiling to herself, her mind drifted to her Doctor, and all of his faultiness. What he would call a fault though, Clara would call wonderful. Truthfully, she could not have faced her grief without him. There’d been no need to even talk about it, he simply was there, he understood. Her tears were his tears too. The depth of his affection was infinite, and he wrapped it around her without hesitation.

The twang was increasing in volume as her thoughts strayed. How was that possible? She shouldn’t be able to hear him in the library. He might be the best thing in time and space that would ever happen to her, but he was bloody annoying sometimes. He’d said he would keep it down. This was the opposite of keeping it down. Memory of a goldfish.

Unable to take it anymore, she slammed the book closed. It’s not like she wanted to be bossy, but she needed to get this done, and he had promised. She didn’t want to be stuck at this another day, when they could be off seeing planets. She’d only held off saying something this long because she knew it helped him think, but couldn’t it help him think a little less loudly?

* * *

The Doctor sat the guitar back on its stand, having gotten that little bit of inspiration he needed to carry on with the next idea which had inevitably come bubbling to the surface. Being able to relax into a soothing chord progression or melody had certainly been able to let his mind disengage, give him the distance needed to change perspectives. But it was a very distant second to the only true distraction, the one that could really center him, calm his mind. He smiled, continuing to get stuck into his work.

Calling her a distraction wasn’t exactly fair, but he couldn’t help but tease, even in his thoughts. The truth of it was so much more than that, and she didn’t have to be any kind of telepath to know, for she did know. 

Hearing a shrill and welcome noise pierce his thoughts, he could hear her shout that she loved him. It was nice to have something to tap into again, something that wasn’t just the white noise of the universe. He didn’t strictly-speaking need it, but it was nice none-the-less. He smiled warmly, replying “I love you too, my Clara,” in his own thoughts, only vaguely wondering at how she was supposed to be hard at work herself, before getting on with his own task at hand. 

Moments passed, the silence from the library jarred by incoherent yapping. The Doctor listened in that direction, the yapping in his thoughts being replaced by the staccato of her miniature stilts resonating in his ears. His head tilted, he leaned in his chair and watched her approach. It was a waste of time trying to pretend to be working, besides which, this was interesting. She really had a bee in her bonnet, which made his mind wander to the declining bee population on earth, and what had happened with that since the departure of the migrant bees…

Clara snapped him back to attention, “Are you a goldfish?”

Turning his head to the side, as if hearing her better could help decipher what she meant, “Sorry?”

“Are you a goldfish?”

“No, I’m a Timelord,” he explained calmly. This certainly wasn’t what he expected.

“And Timelords live a long time, yeah?” she demanded.

Had her brain actually turned to pudding? He considered scanning her. “Yes, they tend to.”

“So, would you agree that Timelords must have a pretty good capacity for remembering, then?” 

Having just been recollecting a problem that was well over a thousand years ago in his time line, “Superior ability to humans, yeah. We all retain our memories, Clara. It’s more the ability to retrieve them. I can show you.” Pausing, he pursed his lips and furrowed his brow in complete confusion. “Are you feeling alright?”

Her annoyance cooling, this was kind of fun now. Timelord really could be another word for idiot. Suppressing a smile, she continued on, “Can you use that superior Timelord ability to retrieve our conversation this morning?”

Was he going to have to scan the library? He was going to have to scan the library. “You said you had some teacher-thing to do, and I left you to it. Did the chair not work out for you?”

“The chair was fine. The chair was perfect, love the chair. The concert was a bit of a distraction, but the chair was great.”

The Doctor gritted his teeth sheepishly. “Sorry. But you came from the library.” I heard you earlier, in my thoughts. Now it was becoming clear what happened, but he decided to let her keep talking, trying his best not to smile. She didn’t know how happy this little mistake of hers was making him, at least not yet. He would have to show her just how much.

“Yes! I did! You didn’t have to crank it to 11 for my benefit!” He laughed in spite of himself. So that’s how she heard it. She actually heard his thoughts, and was able to reply. This was more fascinating and wonderful than he could have dared hope. “Doctor! Unless you want to contribute to the pudding-brainedness of year 7, I needed to get this lesson plan done!” 

He simply smiled softly at her as he reached for his guitar. That little tear on the collar of her dress was distracting. Obviously, she hadn’t noticed, much like the disheveled hair, seemingly reacting to emotion. What a mystery, a Timelord could delve into that mystery for an eternity, and still not have the answers. It matched the look on her face, which was a mask. She wasn’t angry, not really. 

His smile broadening and guitar strap in place, he rose in one fluid motion and approached her, playing an intro familiar to his fingers. With his wild hair, and two-day scruff, the frayed t-shirt and torn hoodie, the dark plaid trousers and the scuffed boots, he was the picture of a rebel punk rock Timelord. Her rebel Timelord, playing with a perfect distortion. Clara could only watch in awe as he approached with his usual grace. Singing the wordless melody of the intro with his natural gravelly resonance, he launched into lyrics he wasn’t about to get wrong, not this time.

He approached her slowly as the song evolved into the important bit, the bit she needed to know.

> _Rebel Rebel, you've torn your dress_
> 
> _Rebel Rebel, your face is a mess_
> 
> _Rebel Rebel, how could they know?_
> 
> _Hot tramp, I love you so!_

By the last line, he was leaning over her, his eyes hooded as if he might kiss her. Instead he attacked the riff and backed away with a wicked smile. 

A multitude of thoughts and emotions shot through Clara at once. Here was her complete punk badass, showing her he could get the words right, telling her how he felt in the sexiest possible way. There was more to it though, those words more easily described himself. He was the rebel, he was the hot tramp. It was like he at once knew, and didn’t. She could only watch, transfixed.

> _So what you wanna know Calamity's child,_
> 
> _Where'd you wanna go?_
> 
> _What can I do for you? Looks like you've been there too_
> 
> _'Cause you've torn your dress_
> 
> _And your face is a mess_
> 
> _Your face is a mess_
> 
> _So how could they know?_
> 
> _How could they know?_
> 
> _Hot tramp, I love you so._

He was leaning over her again as the declaration rolled from his lips soft and low, the words barely out before the guitar was slung carelessly off. Capturing her mouth with his hungrily, he kissed her hard and deep, the way he knew she liked best. 

Opening her mouth to his readily, she responded with a passion at least equaling his own, hitching her leg around his, as she pulled at the back of his neck, running her fingers through his unruly curls.

They weren’t going to make it to that home-in-Tardis he made for them over Christmas, the work table would just have to do. His lips traveling down her neck, he backed them towards it. Clara quickly cleared the surface sending everything scattering across the floor. The Doctor hadn’t thought of that, all that work down the drain. Before he had a chance to respond, she was pulling him by the hoodie, her lips tugging at his, hungry to feel his mouth on hers, their tongues entwining, and always exploring. 

Tearing off his coat, his eyes bore into hers, but she was unapologetic. “You didn’t let me get any work done, why should I let you?” She challenged him, breathlessly. His glare left her eyes and wandered to that collar. She still didn’t even know, and it was such a pretty dress, such a pity that he was going to have to rip off the buttons that were straining against her chest.

Clara busied herself with removing his hoodie while he eyed that dress with an intense and hungry glare. She barely had a chance to wonder what he was up to, when he grabbed the material with either hand and yanked hard, sending the buttons to scatter and intermingle among the remnants of his project.

She at once gasped and scowled. She liked this dress, and while he was being amazingly sexy, she liked that dress. “Oi!” She exclaimed, batting his hands away with an exasperated pout. Sticking his pinky through the hole in the collar, all he did was look at her through still hungry eyes, his mouth twisting into a lopsided smile. She was wasn’t exactly the sewing type.

Clara tugged at his t-shirt, which he helped remove quickly, before hopping up on the table, pulling him back to her with her legs wrapping around his hips. Rubbing against his stubble, she moaned at the sensation, “Rip it.”

“Yes ma’am,” he replied gruffly, wasting no time in grabbing the remaining fabric and yanking with a strength that left her breathless. The material gave way easily under his hands, and she shrugged out of it quickly. She made a move for his belt, but was too slow for his liking. 

As far as he was concerned, this was the boring bit. He shrugged out of his trousers and boxers, momentarily forgetting his boots. Clara cackled at the sight of him hopping around, with no graceful way of getting out of the predicament of taking off his boots and pants at the same time. It was a movement that put her in mind of a stick insect doing an interpretive dance. 

Finally free of his clothing, Clara drank in the sight of her graceful rebel Timelord, not quiet the stick insect once fully revealed. Both firm and soft, lanky and strong, thin and filled out, his body was a study in all the right contradictions. His arms were back around her now, making quick work of her bra while she distracted him with her mouth on his neck. While she busied her hands with that lovely tuft of hair on his stomach, he let out a soft growl, “These are in the way,” tugging at her panties.

“Steady, boy,” she teased, scooting up to remove them, again, too slowly for his liking. He rubbed the two-day scruff of his cheek into her neck roughly in response. Clara groaned, letting him help her speed up the process.

“That’s better,” he moaned against her neck, taking his time now, savoring the feel of her soft skin under his lips, and the taste of her on his tongue. Wrapping her legs around him, Clara arched her back, running her fingernails up his back and into his hair. She sought to mark his skin with her mouth the way he could hers, but it had so far remained impervious to her attempts. He liked her to try though, at least as much as she enjoyed trying.

Together, they savored the contact of skin against skin, of kisses that went on and on. “If this is what you wanted, all you had to do was say so,” Clara spoke softly, her hand reaching for his fully erect cock. She stroked him gently, glancing her thumb around the head before each teasing downward stroke, giving all of him her full attention.

“Clara… I always want you… Always.” swallowing hard, he closed his eyes for a moment before looking deep into hers. “My Clara, you did an impossible thing,” leaning in to kiss her long and reverently, “And you don’t even know it.” 

Her head reeling from his kiss, Clara regained thought and regarded him in playful confusion. “I know you like this,” she swirled her thumb around the tip with just a little more pressure and he hissed, “But it’s really not so impossible.”

“Not that!” His laughing reply choking through his moan. Trying to maintain his train of thought, distracted by a bit of her shoulder he’d never kissed. Pausing to remedy that, he pressed on, “What you heard. It wasn’t what you think you heard, but yet, you still heard it.” He closed his eyes, smiling.

Sometimes he simply made no sense, and now was one of those times. What the hell was he talking about? When she’d rather be concentrating on the rebel Timelord with the golden voice, who finally decided to get the words right, singing for her, oblivious to the fact that he was really singing about himself? “Shut up. Just shut up.” 

His usual retort was quickly captured with her mouth on his, their lips pulling and tugging while their mouths clasped fast to the other. Their kiss formed a perfect harmony of sensations, their tongues rubbing, entwining, finding new ways of sending shockwaves through them both.

With her hand still working him, it was a thin excuse for him to return the favor. Breaking the kiss so that he could see the hunger in her eyes, he chuckled as his hand playfully traveled down. Always the boss, always wanting to make him lose control first.

“My love, that’s never gonna happen,” he breathed into her ear, with a shiver from her in reply. “And even if it did, it still wouldn’t save you,” Her lips parted in a silent plea. “You’re mine now. Don’t you know that?” She let out a small cry as his fingers danced around her clit, “Yes, all mine.” 

There was nothing Clara wanted more than for him to take control of her pleasure, the only man she would ever trust. She didn’t want or have to tell him what to do, for his mouth was already between her thighs, his tongue and his lips replacing his fingers, no longer teasing. His mouth was unrelenting, giving her no chance to fight it, to hold back. If this was payback for trying to set him off, then she was more than willing to pay. Leaning her head back, her hands dug into his scalp. 

With his tongue, and with his lips, the Doctor could make her feel the contradiction of everything and nothing. Nothing else existed, no conscious thought but the shockwaves his tongue could shoot through her, the soft pressure of his lips pushing her closer to an explosion of all the senses at once. The thought of nothing became the everything, making her hyperaware of every sensation. His stubble teased, and his lips caressed, while the slow languid, rhythmic swirl of his tongue combined with his moans of approval, reverberated throughout her body.

Every feeling and sensation was his to give or to take away, but no sooner did thought return to her, then she felt the shift in him. He would never take this away, not ever. He wanted her, needed her, loved her so much. His mouth was more insistent now. She could feel the Doctor losing himself in the perfection of her. 

Perfection of her, it was the perfection of him that was draining her of any willpower she had left. With nothing existing but his mouth at her core, the control freak gave up the last of her control. Every emotion and sensation imploded in and exploded out, in a dance completely controlled by him, in complete adoration and devotion.

The Doctor slowly kissed a familiar but no-less mesmerizing path up from her thighs, that eventually found her shoulders, neck, and finally her lips. Let her taste the proof of his devotion to her. Returning his kiss languidly, Clara wrapped her legs back around him, her hands grasping desperately for any hold on him she could find. 

She was fully aware how it worked. This body was temporary, if he occupied it for 1000 years or 1000 days, it was who the body belonged to that mattered. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy those wonderful contradictions this body offered her in the meantime, contradictions that were a metaphor for the contradiction that was himself. Whereas his wall used to be the sense of humor, now that same sense for the ridiculous was hidden under a veneer of stoicism that was so easily broken. The aversion to attachment, from a man who so easily became attached, who cared and loved too freely for his own good. And of course, the humanoid, who was at once all too alien, and all too human. It didn’t take much effort to feel what he needed.

The Doctor peppered her face and her lips with gentle kisses. Those previous ongoing calculations forgotten. What did it matter, when they had a time machine? Selfish he may be, but even the life of a Timelord is short, their time together shorter still. He was still learning to reconnect with all that joy and beauty in the universe he once saw. More than that, was the joy of having something private, something that belonged to just the two of them. It had been too long since he’d attempted to build that private world with anyone. There was none better than his Clara, to make that safe, secret little world a reality.

No longer at the workbench, the Doctor felt cocooned in the safety of that private world, with Clara. The world wasn’t a visceral anything, it was a figurative nothing that felt like everything. The Doctor and Clara, alone in their private world, surrounded by the safety of their complete trust and affection.

From somewhere distant, with Clara’s body melting into his, he could hear her pleas for more. Unable to stand being so far apart any longer, he pressed inside her, her hips trembling as he gripped her to him fast. There was only one word to describe the perfection of being held inside her, one word to describe the utter devotion he felt. “Clara…” he sighed into her neck, while her fingers dug into his bare skin in desire laced with desperation, in a need equaling his own.

There would be time later for telepathic links and private universes built for two. Now was time to remind Clara who she belonged to, and that he was so completely hers, that no word yet had been invented in any language he’d yet heard to describe just how complete. There was a mathematical formula he’d come up with, the Clara theorem. Maybe someday, he’d show her. In this perfect moment, it was time to show her physically.

“Feel how wet you make me, so tight and so wet,” Clara breathed hotly into his ear, desperate for what he had to give her. For the Doctor, the thought of anyone talking in such ways during such a moment would be so profoundly silly. Of course he could feel it, how could he not notice? It sounded very different coming from Clara, though. Emanating from her throat, words like that set him absolutely on fire. Responding with a low moan, he drove into her hard and fast, able to nearly pull all the way out and thrust all the way back in, at a pace that had her seeing stars.

Forcing her to look into his eyes, the Doctor moaned softly, “I know that’s what you need, you don’t like it short and fast. No, my Clara wants it long and hard.” He punctuates long as his cock slides almost out of her, and hard while slamming back in, he continued, “And that’s exactly how I’m gonna fuck her,” his eyes screwing shut at the effect of her body adjusting again to his.

“Oh yeah, Doctor,” Clara whined, having problems keeping her voice level as it wavered. “You know that’s what I like. Fuck me just like that.” Her core clenched him tighter, while her fingernails clawed anew into his back, causing him to moan and bend down, one hand cupping her breast up to his mouth, to be claimed by his lips and tongue, between his teeth. Clara could only arch her back against the other arm that held her so tightly, letting herself be owned by the Doctor, claimed by him in the way she’d only ever dreamed of before Christmas.

“Mine!” the Doctor intoned into her neck, his lips having moved along her chest, and shoulder, up to her ear, before reaching again for her neck. His hands busy digging into her hips, controlling the rhythm of the furious pace at which he was able to fuck her so long and so hard all at once. He could feel she was close, and so he slipped one hand between them, teasing her clit, glancing just around it in sweet contradiction to how he was thrusting and grinding so hard into her. “Come for me, come for me, my delicious, sweet, beautiful Clara.” His low, rocky voice rolling the Rs as his voice practically sang.

“Yours!” Clara agreed, at least in part as she pressed on, murmuring coyly into his chest, kissing and biting as she did so. “But you’re mine as well, and we don’t come until I say so.”

“Yes!” The Doctor growled his approval, thrusting deep into her and letting her hold him tightly there. Matching her coyness with some of his own, he practically purred, “You’re so close, I can feel you wanting to implode, and explode,” He massaged her clit more insistently as he continued, “I’m just giving you what you want. Don’t you want to? I think you do. I love you so much, we both waited so long, so so long.” He began thrusting into her again, building back up the momentum that was lost, very quickly driving them both to the edge. “Come with me, my darling, my love.” Both his arms wrapped tightly around her, his cool skin craving the contact of her warmth.

“Oh I know you, Clever Boy, I know you utterly, and completely. I know everything about you, and I love you, all of you, body, mind, and soul. You are, completely, mine.” Clara couldn’t hold back now if she wanted to. 

The beautiful friction created between them, inside, and around them demanded its release. It was a release that was always perfect, but always somehow better than the last. With simultaneous cries, their shared climax propelled them into that world of visceral nothing, filled with their mutual love and trust, their physical need replaced with refreshed emotional realization. This was the reason, their single purpose, their own private harmony.

“You can feel it too, then.” The Doctor spoke quietly, between sighs and soft kisses.

It was Clara’s turn to furrow her brow. “I can, actually. Is this the clever thing?”

Laughing softly, holding her tightly, he pressed her head against his chest, “I guess I shouldn’t’ve been surprised, by the person, the being who knows me best. We’ll work on it though, get you more accurate than thinking my voice sounds like a guitar.” 

Smiling to herself, the teacher realized she had a lesson of her own to teach him. Pulling him by the neck, she tugged his head down to meet hers. Closing her eyes, and whispering hopefully, she asked “What am I thinking now?” 

The Doctor closed his eyes for a moment, welcoming her warmly into his thoughts. He sighed contentedly for only a moment, before his eyes snapped open wide in surprised, a smile dancing across his lips at seeing her smile, confirming her inner voice loud and clear. His ring, that he had entrusted into her care, until such time as she wanted one of her own, he would indeed be getting that ring back soon.


End file.
